postamble of a novel that cant end

in which jude and macedonio achronally chat

under southern heavens

above blakean hells

 

if macedonio wrote a novel that cant begin the doocore writes a novel that cant end, decades ago jude left the big institutions of the day to work with satan in oaxaca but found - as was written in the ancient preamble - that were all locked up, theres no escape, even the wildernesss an institution

 

why is this so? because consciousness is institutional, an infinite confinement, a founding disposition instruction arrangement introduction, a practice an appointment, a jail but one without walls and the jailors us, a cell but a sphere and not just one but many and we can only see the spot we stand on and no matter how much we try or claim to see the many spheres we all stumble back onto the spot we stand and speak from that space and perhaps also the trying and claiming

 

so jude, having gradually migrated from temple bank academe to desert, through the feral penitentiaries of art meeting many mates wardens and selfproclaimed guards, sleeping under the sand like some phyllotis darwini vampire, emerging at night to have tea with the stars ...

 

a question becomes for jude then, a question of spiritual technique if you will or not, of how to replicate spheres, iow how to stand on and within multiple realities simultaneously and, corollarily, how to replicate morph transmute and transport affixes including migrating them from substantives  into freedom cells of themselves

 

consequently the novel that keeps on being written has become complicated by the fact that facts and realities, while still real and factive, now cohabit with extensive parallels inversions combustions vaporizations sublimations and so on and on and the prison judes found most conducive to accepting these complications is the desert - which accepts all in its nothingnesses - and they suspect the desert is their institution and all that blather certain reality people blather about going to the prison of the wilderness to return to the prison of society is just another way of saying - my prisons better than yours ... whereas your prisons yours and mines mine or rather no prison is ours for prisons strangely are beyond possession ... and how could we posit a legitimate hierarchy without not just having lived in all the prisons but in all the spiritmeats that inhabit them, and so we are vain lizards skittering around on the slippery hole of ourselves

 

the desert is a mathematic of reality and could be expressed by the formula 0::∞ where the celled one inhabits the colons - indices functions notations theories operations contractions reductions - between the dreamings of its two weird abutments

 

jude isnt in the desert to free themself of attachment but to experience attachment as an eternal stretching with endlessly shifting horizons, whonyms become as stars (not the silly kind that entertainment and sport and their global family promote) but as aspects of a diverse myriad distant backdrop for wandering, art still occurs but so past itself it loses its name

 

so the inmates journal continues long after oaxacas basement - and the gods and demons of money and the money of demons and gods - for adventures and freaks are as readily available in the atacama as they are in the fatican, on gall street, or at poxford ... in a sense in the desert all the freaks and adventures are here, all we have to do is occasionally clamber out of the sand under full or absent moons and wander around

 

next

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jude discovers a convent under the iglesia de caspana